When in Rome
by liger1983
Summary: Hunting is all Ky ever wanted to do, but her plans are derailed when the family that had trained her suddenly disowns her. Rating may become M later on. Eventual Dean/OFC.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

I was screwed. Plain and simple. No one wins in a Mexican Standoff. That's how it was when I first met the Winchesters. I had a knife to the heart of a wolf, and a gun on Dean. Dean's was trained on the monster, and I was staring down the barrel of Sam's pistol. If that sounds complicated, it's because it was. It was the tensest bullshit for a very long time, but in the end, the werewolf was dead and I was tied to a chair and bleeding from my lip.

-December 6th 2005-

"Who are you?" the taller one demanded. He shoved MY knife to my throat so hard that I could feel the edge burn a shallow cut into my skin.

"An ally, I think," I replied, "You are hunter's right?"

His jaw tensed, and a tight smile fell on his lips. He glanced back at the other man and exchanged some looks. My psychology training kicked in as I analyzed them. They were familiar enough with each other to have developed a nonverbal form of communication, which suggested a relationship closer than just friends, or even hunting partners, but the age difference, or lack thereof, suggested something along the lines of either siblings or lovers. I told them as much.

"We're brothers. Just brothers," the other one piped up quickly, "why does everyone always assume we're gay?"

"I don't assume anything. That conclusion was derived through deductive reasoning," I scoffed.

"The hell language are you speaking?" he fired back. I said, "If you're referring to my accent, it's Italian, but if you sincerely don't understand what I'm saying . . . well, I was actually educated."

He shouldered his brother out of the way, muttering 'move Sam'.

"Listen, Smartass," his voice was dangerously low. He snared my collar in his fist, yanking my face closer to his. I was close enough to count the freckles that dotted his nose. But I was too terrified to do anything but swallow the lump in my throat. Then he shoved me backwards. The chair's legs wobbled dangerously for a lifetime before they completely slid, pulling me down with them. I don't know if the scream came from my throat, or from the wood scratching the linoleum. I couldn't breathe. All the breath, and courage, in my body had fled when I tipped back.

The chair had broken when I smacked the ground, I was free, but I didn't move. I lay there in a crumpled heap, my limbs splayed around me. I whimpered –and I hate myself for it – "Please don't hurt me."

That made them falter. I'm sure they could see how young I was, how inexperienced. I've been told I look older than my age of 19, but I know I looked about ten years old now that my eyes brimmed with tears. I could see Sam visibly soften, his eyebrows folding in sympathetically. The other stood over me with his arms crossed over his chest. He spoke to his brother, "she's playing us Sammy."

"Dean, no. She's a kid," Sam protested. Dean sighed.

"How old are you?" He asked me, extending the same hand to help me up as he did to knock me down. Something in his face told me I could trust him. I placed my small hand in his rough, calloused one, and he guided me to my feet.

"How old are you?" he asked again. I muttered my answer.

"I'm Dean," he said, "and this is Sam. He's 22."

I guess it was a ploy to get me to trust them, or he was just that liberal with information. I doubted that, but either way, I took the bait. Smiling shyly, I asked, "and how old are you, Dean?"

"I'll be 27 in a couple weeks."

I trusted them enough to let them take me to their motel room and get me cleaned up. I perched on what I would come to learn was Dean's bed. He knelt between my legs and dabbed at a cut on my knee with rubbing alcohol. I barely winced. I had been trained to withstand pain.

"You know I didn't mean to make you fall back there," he informed me. I smiled down at him. I didn't know that, but I'd already forgiven him anyways. I joked, "Don't know your own strength?"

He laughed. Not the kind of full roaring laughter that comes when you're really entertained, but that quiet chuckle were you know that you've brightened someone's day, even if it is in just a small way. That knowledge made me grin.

We were quiet for a bit after that. He sewed up my leg, and examined the cut on my lip. Dean seemed to be chewing on the inside of his lip, his jaw was flexing, but his head was bowed so it was hard to tell.

"Was that your first job?" he asked me. His green eyes burned intensely into mine. It made me want to shy away and it made me want to never move from his gaze ever again all at the same time. I don't know how anyone could ever look into his eyes and lie to him.

"Yes," I whispered, "and I failed."

My breathing quickened as my reality sunk in. I've failed.

"Oh my God," I hissed, pulling my gaze away from Dean's as I felt my eyes get misty for the second time that day. I stared at the peeling motel wallpaper and let the magnitude of my situation crush me. I said, "They're never going to let me hunt again. They're never going to talk to me again."

He could see how distressed I was. My eyes were like very wet saucers, burning with tears. I had caught Sam's attention as well. Sam was the first to verbally react. He gave me urgent advice, "hey, hey! Hunting's not everything."

"It is for . . . me. And . . . and it is for them," I managed between sobs. Dean's hand went to cup the side of my face. It was comforting. I guess he knows more about women than just how to get them into bed. He looked at me with that intensity again, "Who is they?"

"My family."

Internally, I shuttered to say the word 'family'.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

-December 6th 2005-

"Oh Sweetheart," Dean sighed, "It's your first try. You'll get better, and your family will understand."

"You don't know my family. And don't call me Sweetheart. Hunting is all they care about – all I care about too – and that was the only chance I get," I sighed, "so I'm screwed."

Sam looked at me and said, "That doesn't matter. Your parents will take you back."

Dean stared at his brother. Sam, the one who had left his family and preached against their father forcing them to hunt was talking about family values?

"Parents?" I asked, slightly confused – surely they had figured it out by now? - "No. I mean my 'family' is the people that trained me."

They gave me skeptical looks. So they didn't know. I knew I hadn't underestimated them; they aren't stupid. Maybe . . . ?

"Who trained you?" Dean asked me. It was my turn to be mixed up. They certainly didn't grow up the way I did. I said, "The older, retired hunters always to teach the new generations. This was my test."

I thought certainly this would ring some kind of bell with them, but they still gave me the same baffled stares, so I kept going, "The elders put that wolf in this town. Picked its victims."

Confusion was beginning to morph into distrust and accusing looks.

"What are you saying?" Dean asked, "That this job was _invented_, that that couple was _murdered_ so that your parents could test you?"

"Not parents," I insisted, "and you just answered your own question."

"Why?" he barked at me. I could tell I was making him angry, and I doubted that avoiding the question, no matter how bad it would make my way of life sound, would only make him angrier. I said, "That's just how we do it. You put a monster down in a controlled environment, then introduce the new hunter to that environment. If the hunter can kill the monster, without help . . ."

This was where I had failed. The Winchesters showing up meant that I hadn't done it alone.

". . . then they pass. If not, then they fail and are never allowed to hunt again. No second chances."

"And that couple?" Dean pressed. He really is like a dog with a bone isn't he? I shrugged, "collateral."

Dean looked at Sam, then back to me, then back at Sam and into one of those annoying read each other's mind looks. They excused themselves and walked outside together. I guess they figured that I wouldn't be able to hear them. Boy where they wrong.

"I don't trust her," Dean said, "she's crazy. Six ways to Sunday."

Ouch.

"Well, yeah. I mean, what was she talking about?" Sam added, "But we still have to help her."

Dean scoffed, "Hell no, we don't. It's not like she's in any kind of trouble, and we've got our own crap to deal with."

"So what do we do? Ship her back to Italy?"

"Hmm, no that's sounds insensitive," he pretended to think before clapping his brother on the shoulder and saying, "your good with that kind of gushy crap. You better handle this one Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes and headed towards the door, but mentally complained. _'Yeah, yeah, you don't do chick flick moments. You're going to have to get the hell over that one Dean, cause sooner or later someone's going to expect you to act like you give a damn._' Despite his annoyance with his brother, Sam put on his sympathetic puppy dog face to break the news to me. But by the time he had opened the door, I had finished forcing my stuff into my backpack, had slung it over my shoulder, and was ready to bolt out the door before the angry tears flowed down my cheeks.

"Um . . ." he started talking without any idea how he would finish that sentence. I looked at him and asked, "Did you think I was staying?"

He looked at me and slowly nodded.

"I'm not."

"I can see that," he said.

I didn't really want to say goodbye, but they had been good to me and it's the socially acceptable thing to do, so what choice do I have? At the very least I didn't want to do it twice. So I asked, "Where's Dean?"

Sam shrugged. The Impala wasn't in its place in front of their room, so I could only assume Dean didn't care to say goodbye any more than I did.

"Doesn't really matter I guess," I said, "Bye Sam."

"Bye."

And I left.

I didn't tell him that I could have done it without them. I didn't tell him that, no matter what they said about family, mine would never forgive me. And I didn't tell him that it was all their fault. I was just thinking it.


End file.
